


more to lose than gain

by ashers_kiss



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Gen, Implied Clint Barton/Phil Coulson - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, implied James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has about forty-five seconds to think she should have gone in through the window, when Clint opens the door and says, “Huh.  You knocked.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	more to lose than gain

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic I wanted to write from almost the moment I left the cinema after first seeing Cap 2. Because dammit, I wanted to know where Clint was! And also because their being each other's support system is my favourite thing ever.
> 
>  _Huge_ thanks to the ever-amazing [amine-eyes](http://amine-eyes.tumblr.com/), who made this a lot better than it was and who I can't thank enough. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> I should note that I'm not caught up on Agents of SHIELD (though I know what happens to SHIELD); I started writing this under the theory that the US government would take control of SHIELD in order to prevent a power vacuum, and that's how I continued writing it. As such, this isn't entirely compliant with post-Cap 2 canon.
> 
> (Also, I wrote this before I saw [Aja's sketches](http://iamshadow21.tumblr.com/post/90232890156/rihansu00-actuallyclintbarton-clints-loft) of Clint's apartment. So if things seem off...that's why.)
> 
> Title from [The Outsider](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1rtFnpz-uo) by Marina and The Diamonds.

It’s late by the time she gets to New York, almost dark, and the light’s out at the door – which isn’t all that unusual, actually; Natasha’s used to making her way in the dark. She has about forty-five seconds to think she should have gone in through the window, when Clint opens the door and says, “Huh. You knocked.”

Natasha shrugs. “Gotta keep you on your toes somehow.”

“Sure, that’s one way to put it.” Then Lucky pushes past him, shoving his head under Natasha’s hand with his tongue lolling, dripping all over her jeans, and Natasha rubs behind his bad ear. Clint calls him a traitor, but he moves to let her inside, Lucky trailing after them. “You want coffee?” Clint asks, but he’s already at the kitchenette (Natasha refuses to call that a kitchen, ever). He looks like he’s slept in his clothes. Again. Probably more than a few times.

“Something stronger would be nice,” is all she says, dropping her bag – carefully – and settling into her corner of the couch.

Clint snorts, even as Lucky headbutts the backs of his knees. “Rough day, huh.”

“Rough week.” Rough month. Rough fucking year, and the one before it. She still aches in places she’d forgotten about; her head spins, sometimes, and she’s not entirely sure if that’s the Bite or the not sleeping. And then, because she’s stupid and tired and had over a hundred cameras go off in her face today, “How did you – ”

“I saw the news, Tash.” She kind of hates the way he says it, almost gentle. She can hear the clink of a bottle over the coffee machine, so she forgives him. “Got the change in management email, too. And one from Stark. How the hell did he get my email, anyway?”

That almost makes her laugh, because it’s _Stark_. “It’s Stark,” she says. “He probably bugged you during shwarma.”

“Swell,” Clint mutters. Then he’s banging cupboard doors, because he never remembers to look out mugs before the coffee’s done (she suspects he doesn’t even bother when she’s not there), and there’s nothing to distract Natasha from the pressure building behind her eyes. She thinks about the look on Steve’s face when he woke up – she can’t stop seeing it, over and over, and if it’s not that it’s _worse_ – and makes herself say, “You should probably take him up on it.”

The banging stops, and then Clint asks, oh so carefully and sure as hell not fooling her, “On what?”

Her chest feels tight. It’s a side effect of the Bite, she’s pretty sure. It’s not like she makes a habit of trying it out on herself. “He asked you to move in, right?”

There’s another pause. “Yeah,” Clint says, and he’s trying way too hard like it’s not a big deal. “Don’t think he takes dogs, though.”

And that’s – that’s not a lie, they don’t lie to each other, not really, and Natasha _knows_ when he’s lying. But she doesn’t have the fucking energy to push. Let Clint keep his secrets; he’s precious few left as it is.

Instead, she forces herself to stretch out, let her sore muscles pop, even though the rib she’s pretty sure she cracked on the bridge hates her for it, and her shoulder throbs. Clint’s couch sucks, too many broken springs, musty in ways that have nothing to do with Clint shutting himself up for almost two years. “Your couch sucks,” she tells him.

“So you keep tellin’ me,” he says, handing her a mug over the back of the couch. It’s more vodka than coffee, and none it the good stuff, but Natasha knocks most of it back before Clint takes the chair across from her, perched on the edge like he doesn’t plan on being there long. (His mug has a shield on the side, mostly hidden under his hands, but Natasha has gotten very familiar with that shield. It’s new, though, just like all the other tourist crap that appeared after the Chitauri, which means that it’s probably from Stark, as a joke or an apology. It’s hard to tell with him, sometimes.) Lucky follows him from the kitchenette and sits himself down in front of Natasha, watching her.

She eyes him over her own mug. “I think your dog’s trying to out-stare me.” It’s never going to happen, but she still pulls the treat out of her pocket, and Lucky’s ear pricks up before she lets him take it from her. She has him trained, at least.

Clint huffs, rubs the back of his neck. “He’s going to get fat if you keep doing that.”

Natasha lifts an eyebrow at him. “Not if you don’t feed him the whole box. Again.” He flips her off, and Lucky thumps his tail, noses at her hand until she scratches his ear. It’s – quiet, calm in that way Clint always makes things, giving Natasha room to breathe, to centre herself again. When she breathes out, her grip isn’t so tight on her mug.

Eventually, Clint says, “You’re going after him, aren’t you.” It’s not a question. He’s not even looking at her, staring down into his coffee with his elbows propped on his knees, shoulders hunched, and Natasha doesn’t even think about lying, not really. Not enough that it matters. She is so, so tired of lies.

She shrugs, cradling her mug between her hands. It’s vile, really. “I know what it’s like.” More honest than she intended, maybe, but Clint knows – well. Clint knows everything Natasha knows, which probably isn’t much, but she knows _this_. She knows that Steve didn’t drag himself out of the Potomac; she knows the blankness, the panic.

(She isn’t stupid, doesn’t ask how Clint knows this time. He saw the news, and there are boxes full of information on the Commandos stacked in the far corner, collector’s editions and annuals and God knows what else left untouched and dusty. It might not have ever been Clint’s obsession, but he has a memory for faces that rivals her own. He knows, and that’s all that matters, because Natasha’s not sure she could make herself force the words out.)

Clint scrubs a hand over his face, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Jesus effing Christ.” Out loud, he says, “Does Cap know?”

“Probably not,” Natasha admits. Then, “I gave him the file.” She doesn’t know what she was expecting. Probably for Clint to do more than flop back in his chair and whistle long enough that Lucky’s ears go back.

“Jesus, Nat.”

She wants to pretend it isn’t a big deal. That that damned file wasn’t one of only two things she risked both their necks for when she burned the Red Room to the ground. (And her own file is tucked away, safe and sound; she burned most of her safehouses that day with Pierce, and of the three left, Clint only knows about two of them. Even if it is only a storage locker, it’s _hers_ , and she trusts it a hell of a lot more than she trusts the banks in this country. Or any country. Especially now.) But Clint – well, Clint knows. So she says, “Had to give him a headstart,” just to make him smile.

They stay like that for a while, because they aren’t done, not even a little, but Natasha suspects her head isn’t the only one spinning. The city moves on outside as the darkness grows, the traffic audible even this high up; Lucky’s ears go flat at the occasional sirens, grumbling. Clint reaches down to scratch between his eyes, and Lucky pushes himself to sitting, presses his face against Clint’s knee. Natasha watches them, and when Clint looks up, there’s something soft about his face.

He rolls to his feet, leaves his mug on top of the TV stand and stretches until his neck pops. “I’m going to bed. You comin’?”

“I’m not staying here.” She drains her mug, sits it on the floor like a normal human being, because there’s too much crap on the coffee table. It’s barely ten, but Natasha isn’t too proud to admit exhaustion – not here, anyway – and Clint looks like he could sleep for a week, and it still wouldn’t be enough. “Your couch – ”

“Sucks, yeah, I know.”

The bedroom smells pretty much like the couch, stale and musty, but at least the sheets are clean. Natasha’s not sure she’d care if they weren’t, at this point. She strips out of her boots and her jeans while Clint all but flops on to the bed, fully dressed. Lucky noses at his hand for a moment before Clint runs said hand over his head, muttering, “Bed, dude, seriously. Sleep,” and Natasha slides under the cover, stashes her .45 under the pillow, and kicks at him until he gets under with her.

They’re quiet again, Lucky’s breathing the loudest thing in the room, before Clint says, “I can’t believe you’re still wearing that thing. It was a _joke_.” Natasha punches him in the shoulder, and he laughs, soft, into his pillow. Natasha finally lets herself sleep when his breaths even out.

When Clint starts to shake, enough to wake her, Natasha moves close and wraps her arms tight around him, murmuring nonsense as softly, carefully as she can. (She doesn’t realise it’s in Russian until she hears the echo in her head, remembers the soothing press of snow-cold metal against her skin.) Clint turns and buries his face against her throat, clinging, and Natasha can do nothing but hold him, stroking fingers through his hair for the rest of the night.

*

She moves before Clint wakes, easing out of bed and out of the room without even a twitch from him. (Lucky, stretched out on a nest of dog bed and blankets because his bad leg won’t let him get up on the bed, lifts his head as she passes, and thumps his tail once, but doesn’t follow.)

She runs with one of Steve’s caps pulled low over her face, hair tucked up underneath, and the sleeves of Clint’s old FBI hoodie pulled down over her knives. (Clint always says he stole it from the guy who arrested him, and Natasha’s never called him on it.) She runs about six blocks and through a back alley in order to dispatch the Hydra agent tailing her (she doesn’t kill him, and she refuses to think about why; she leaves him bound behind a dumpster with a dislocated shoulder and knee, texting Pepper as she leaves. Best to let Stark feel involved before he whines about being left out).

It’s only another three blocks to the deli she likes, and she’d analysed her options before she left, which doesn’t count for much, unless she wants leftover Chinese for breakfast.

She drinks her coffee on the way back, leaves Clint’s and the brioche on the breakfast bar, out of Lucky’s reach, and goes to try and coax hot water from the shower. Part of her wants to be gone before Clint wakes – before he does something stupid, like try to go with her. But that – she’s better than that now. Trying to be better. Clint _deserves_ better.

Besides, who knows when she’ll next have access to hot water. Shitty pressure and all.

Clint’s reading the note she left taped to his cup when she steps out the bathroom, towelling off her hair. He doesn’t look up. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“The good stuff, huh?” His mouth quirks up at the corner, and something in Natasha’s chest eases.

“Not that you’d know.” She flicks her wet towel at him, catches the skin showing where his shirt rode up so he hisses. “Your turn.”

“Nat – ”

“Before I drag you in.” She meets his eyes, lifts a brow. “You reek, Barton.”

Clint ducks his head after a moment, sighs the way he does whenever she wins. She’ll bet his mouth is doing that thing where he tries not to smile, too. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and Natasha’s not surprised, not really. All she says, though, is, “And no sweats.” Clint flips her off on his way to the bathroom.

They eat the pastries sitting on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, because Natasha doesn’t trust those bar stools to hold even her weight, never mind Clint’s. She shoves her feet between his – she hasn’t been able to get them warm since she went wading into the fucking river to find Steve’s goddamned shield. Lucky sits his head in Clint’s lap and waits for him to give into the puppy eyes.

When he finally does, Natasha figures it’s only so he doesn’t have to look at her. “I could – ”

There it is. “I got this,” she says, cutting him off. It’s not gentle, but she doesn’t think it’s particularly harsh, and Clint shrugs.

“If you wanted.” He looks up, and Natasha kicks his ankle. Lightly.

“I know,” she says. “Idiot.” It’s safer than _thanks_ , always has been.

“Yup,” Clint says, shadow of a grin lurking around his mouth. Then there’s a knock on the door, a loud one, and Clint’s getting to his feet, pushing Lucky aside, grumbling under his breath. Natasha props her chin on the back of the couch and waits to see if he’ll remember the chocolate he always ends up with on his face.

“Clint, hi, thank God.” The woman who steps inside – one of Clint’s tenants – balances a baby on her hip and pauses when she sees Natasha. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t – I can come back – ”

“It’s cool,” Clint says, wiping his hands off on his jeans and glaring at Natasha for not reminding him about the chocolate. She smiles, one of the pretty, harmless ones. “You’re not interrupting anything,” he adds, pointedly. “What’s up?”

The woman – Simone, her name’s Simone, they’ve met a few times – pretty much sags in relief, while the kid makes grabby hands at Clint. “Hot water’s out,” she says, eyes darting to Natasha every so often, “and the oven. I know it’s summer, nearly, it’s pretty hot out already, but the kids – ”

But Clint’s already nodding, even as the kid chews on the hand he gave it to play with. “Hey, no, I get it, totally. I’ll be round in ten?”

“You’re an angel,” Simone tells him, and Natasha could tell her stories, but she can’t disagree with the sentiment. Once Clint extracts all his fingers from the kid’s mouth, Simone’s gone – apparently there’s another kid left sleeping with a neighbour – and Clint drops back down on to the couch, letting his head fall against the back with a small thud.

Natasha hums. “She thinks we’re together.” Which is – understandable and ridiculous in equal measures. Clint huffs.

“Probably. Hey, you know anything about ovens?”

She shrugs. “Sorry. Not high on the Red Room’s priorities.” Or hers. Take-out was invented for a reason.

“I hate you. I’m gonna have to call a guy now,” he whines. Lucky sniffs at his wet hand and makes a disgruntled noise. Clint lifts his head. “Don’t even, dude, don’t think I didn’t notice you hiding.”

Natasha shifts around, shoves at him until she can move away from the spring digging into her ass, and tucks her head on to his shoulder. The hand not soaked in baby spit comes up to settle in her hair. “You’ve got responsibilities,” she says, soft, and Clint sighs. “And so do I.”

“Yeah.” There’s a moment, then, “So if someone tries to blow up the Bridge, give Cap a call?”

She snorts, wiggles herself in deeper. “Yeah, because that worked so well last time.”

“Point.” Clint tips his head against hers, and Natasha knows he’s aware as she is that there’s only three minutes until he’s supposed to attend his landlord duties. Just like he knows a day is more than enough of a headstart for Steve; more than she ever gives anyone. But right now, with Lucky’s head in their laps, drooling all over Clint’s jeans this time, with boxes gathering dust in the corner and ghosts sharp and dangerous behind her eyes, on the street – 

Right now, they’re not going anywhere.


End file.
